


Coup de Foudre

by Crollalanza



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Sexual Situations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-20
Updated: 2014-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-09 10:37:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1144963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crollalanza/pseuds/Crollalanza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fleur knew from the first that he was different. </p>
<p>One look. A glance suggesting possibilities. </p>
<p>A look that changed her life. </p>
<p>Un Coup de Foudre - A Lightning Bolt - Love at First Sight. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling. I am, however, eternally grateful that she created this couple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coup de Foudre

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling. I am, however, eternally grateful that she created this couple. 
> 
> This is for Ser Hestia Jones because she nagged me to write the pairing.

_That look._  
  
An idle glance. An eyeing up of fresh possibilities because Roger is getting boring now in his adoration.   
  
A fresh conquest.  
  
 _That look._  
  
He holds her gaze. Fleur turns away first, and when she looks back, the man is talking to Harry. She licks her lips - playing it cool - but when he stares at her again, she isn’t quick enough to stop the blush forming on her face.   
  
And then ... he smiles at her.  
  
His eyes are blue, like hers, except not at all the same. Hers, she’s been told, sparkle like ice diamonds, arctic blue. His are darker, warm - if that is possible for a cold colour. They brim with laughter and tease with promise.  
  
All of that from one look.  
  
 _Un coup de foudre_  - she tells her mother many months later, expecting her to laugh. However, her mother nods sagely.  
  
 _"Cela arrive comme ça pour nous, ma chérie"._ Then she sighs and holds Fleur’s hand to her cheek.  _"J'espère qu'il ressent la même chose."_ ***  
  
  
He feels the same way.   
  
He tells her as much every time they pass each other in the corridors of Gringotts because he cannot look away. On her twenty-seventh day there, she is tapping along in her heels and clutching huge sheaths of parchment, when she sees him holding nothing more than his wand. She is walking quickly, but slows her pace when Bill appears. He is sauntering, quickening when he sees her. They meet in the middle.  
  
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Delacour.” His accent is appealing, but appalling, and she fails to hide her grin.  
  
“’Ello, Meester Weasley,” she replies.  
  
He grins back at her. Perhaps her accent amuses him, or maybe it intrigues him.  
  
“I shouldn’t keep you,” he adds.  
  
Her heart drops; she nods and takes a step away.  
  
“But...” Bill pauses.  
  
Fleur stops. “But what?”  
  
“Would you like dinner tonight?”  
  
“Oui!” She surprises herself at the quickness of her response. She should at least have pretended she had plans.  
  
Bill looks happy, excited even, at her reply. “I could meet you somewhere or call round to yours,” he suggests.  
  
She tells him her address, which he writes on his hand. “Don’t worry,” he murmurs, “once I get to my office I’ll write it down properly. I would hate this to smudge and I end up at someone else’s house.”  
  
“Zat would be a  _probleme,_ ” she agrees, and after another smile plays on her lips, she walks away. At the end of the corridor, she turns the corner; Bill is still watching her, and he flourishes a bow to Fleur, letting her know that he knows she looked back.  
  
It is a game between them. He knows his worth; she knows she could trap him - at least for a while. And Bill understands that she  _could_  use her Veela charm whenever she wanted.   
  
But she won’t.   
  
Because, for the first time, Fleur wants this to mean something. She wants Bill to be real.   
  
He tries to impress on their first date, taking her to an expensive restaurant in Diagon Alley that has received several rave reviews from the  _Daily Prophet’s_  food critic. Fleur has dressed with care, a pale blue, silk dress dropping to just above her knees, silver strappy sandals, and her hair piled high, exposing her elegant neck.   
  
She tells him the restaurant is lovely. However, the food, to her palate, is acceptable, that is all. A sad English attempt to recreate French food. Her escargots are chewy and swimming in greasy garlic butter. She declares them to be ‘delicious’ but eats no more than two. Bill raises his eyebrows and says nothing.   
  
The meal continues nearly in silence, stifled by the stuffy atmosphere of the place. They chat a little about work, but it is stilted. Two colleagues discovering that they do not have that much in common. Fleur picks at her next course - a passably good coq-au-vin - whilst Bill cuts into his over-cooked steak.   
  
“Did you go to the Quidditch World Cup?” he asks.  
  
Fleur shakes her head sadly. Another subject they cannot talk about. “I do not really understand eet,” she replies honestly. “Papa took Gabrielle; she is an ‘uge fan of Viktor’s.”   
  
“My mum’s never liked the game,” Bill starts to say. Then he curses as his steak, bar the small piece on his fork, flies off the plate and lands on her chest. “Gods, I’m so sorry!”  
  
“Merde!” she exclaims. She is about to say something else, to show how irritated she is, because her dress is new and expensive, but something about the horror on his face makes her falter.  
  
She laughs. Not a flirtatious giggle, Fleur tips back her head and gives a throaty, full-throttled belly laugh. A flustered waiter appears and whilst apologising profusely, tries to brush the sauce off her dress.  
  
"Non, non, non,” she cries. “You will make eet worse.”  
  
“Oi! I think the lady can take care of that by herself!” Bill says. The waiter drops his hand, aghast at the part of Fleur’s anatomy that he’s touching.  
  
“Monsieur cannot possibly eat ‘is steak now,” he says in the most fake accent both of them have ever heard. “I weeel get Monsieur a new one - on ze ‘ouse.”  
  
Bill has tears in his eyes. He glances at Fleur’s plate. “Do you want to finish that, or shall we go?”  
  
Fleur nods. She bites back the comment she wanted to make about their lack of a proper chef, instead smiling sweetly at Bill while they wait for their coats.  
  
“Sorry,” he mutters when they reach the street. “My brother told me that this was  _the_ place to go.”  
  
“The food was ‘orrible!” she complains, then smiles at him. “’Owever ze company was good.”  
  
His eyes smile and he links his arm in hers. “Is your dress completely ruined?”  
  
“I do not know,” she says. “I shall ask Mama, she is very good at ‘ousehold spells, and may ‘ave a potion she can send me.”  
  
“She’d like my mum, then,” Bill replies. “Anyway, I expect you’re used to it by now.”  
  
“Used to what?” She slows her pace; he stops walking.  
  
“Ham-fisted men spilling things on you,” he replies. “You’re quite a distraction.”  
  
This is the moment when she should act coy, smile shyly or titter some vague response about how  _gallant_  he is, yet Fleur does neither. Instead, she pulls him close, tilts her head upwards and parts her lips with the tip of her tongue. He seems amused, and lowers his mouth to hers. Their lips brush, feather-soft at first, and then his hands creep around her waist and he pulls her even closer. She responds, allowing the kiss to continue as one of his hands slides upwards to caress her face. His lips move to her cheek, her neck, her ear, to whisper. “Oh, yes, you are  _quite_  a distraction, Mademoiselle Delacour.”  
  
  
  
They both know that this is something more than a brief flirtation. Bill isn’t shy about his past and tells her he’s had girlfriends.   
  
“It was never like this,” he assures her.  
  
She tells him she has had admirers since she was twelve, but no boyfriends until she was fifteen.   
  
“Nevair like this,” she breathes.  
  
It is not her first time, she tells him on their third date, omitting the details.   
  
Her first was a boy from Beauxbatons in her fifth year. Thierry was desperate for her and she allowed herself to be swept along in his urgency, hoping to feel something. Then there was Roger, who tried his hardest not to disappoint, but she’d felt curiously detached from his passion, his hands grabbing her breasts as he thrust away, coming suddenly before she’d even got started.  
  
They have idled back from a night at a Muggle pub. Bill bought them both fish and chips, which they ate out of the newspaper as they walked back to the flat she is renting. He stands hesitantly on the doorstep, so Fleur holds out her hand and beckons for him to come inside.   
  
“Is it me, or is this going very fast?” he murmurs.  
  
“Eet is not just you,” she whispers. “Does eet matter?”  
  
“Not at all.”  
  
Her bedroom is untidy. Clothes are spilled on the bed from when she’d tried to select the perfect outfit for tonight. She hadn’t wanted to look overdressed, but casual has never been a look she admired. She’d settled for a crushed velvet dress in black - simple, yet Bill seems to appreciate it. With a flick of her wand, she levitates the clothes to a messy pile in the corner. Bill smirks as one of her bras drops to the floor, though when the bed is clear, the smile fades from his face to be replaced by a look of wanton lust.   
  
Fleur sits on the bed. For all her certainty that now is the right time, she is nervous, yet when she feels his warm breath on her back, and one fingertip stroking her arm, she melts into him. He unzips her dress, and then his hands are cupping her breasts, his lips pressing into her neck as he tells her how beautiful she is.  
  
Lowering her down onto her side, Bill lies behind her. One hand slips underneath to splay her stomach, whilst the other runs up and down her side resting on her hipbone. She is quivering, but not from the cold.  
  
“We don’t have to do anything,” he whispers. “I can leave now.”  
  
“Stay,” she murmurs.  
  
“In that case, what would you like?”  
  
She shakes her head, unsure what he is asking. Turning in his arms, Fleur cups his face in her hands and proceeds to kiss him. Bill groans as she hitches one leg around his waist to press against him.   
  
He takes it slow, kissing her lips and staring into her eyes as he begins his steady climb. Underneath him, Fleur writhes and moans prettily. In truth, it is only in response to his pleasure, and has nothing to do with her own. She bites her lip, wondering. Moving faster and faster, Bill gasps again, his hands tightly furled around the pillowcase as he loses control. She can feel his heat, smell his feral skin, and tries to envelop him in an embrace. Then Bill shifts, collapsing on his back.  
  
“Are you going to stay the night?” she asks, thinking that perhaps now he’ll go and leave only this aching void inside of her.  
  
Regaining his breath, Bill props himself onto one elbow, and lazily traces her face with his finger. “I’m not going anywhere until you’ve come, Mademoiselle Delacour,” he mutters.  
  
And then his hand slips downwards, his mouth following as he slides over her breasts, using his tongue to flick her nipple erect. With his finger, he teases, parting the darker blonde hair then fluffing it with his thumb. She squirms, wondering now about the strange sensations coursing through her body, the minute leaps and prickles of desire that pinch at her.   
  
She knows Bill is watching her. She should feel embarrassed, yet there’s something about the intensity of his gaze and the way his fingers are now slowing to prolong this nadir, that brooks no shame. Arching her back, she’s unable to stop as a surge of pleasure swoops though her.   
  
She swears - loudly - and then more curses fall from her lips. A mixture of French and English, ending finally with a single epithet.  
  
“Fuck!”  
  
Bill laughs, but it’s not at her, rather he’s laughing with her, enjoying her experience as much as his own, she feels.  
  
“You were faking it before,” he murmurs, his teeth nipping her earlobe.   
  
Her eyes flicker up to his, apologetic and she bites her lip. Bill kisses her slowly and tenderly. “Watching you has to be the most erotic experience of my life. So please,  _please_ don’t ever pretend again.”  
  
As she turns in his arms, resting her head on his chest, she smiles, perfectly secure. “You are sure zere will be a next time?” she teases.  
  
With his fingers, he tilts her chin up and stares at her, his gaze searing. “I don’t think either of us can keep away now, Fleur.”  
  
  
They meet for lunch, sloping off to her flat whenever they can. And when they can’t, they find an empty office. Bill leans back on a desk, hitches her long legs around his waist, and moulds his hands around her arse as he exhorts her on, delaying until she’s there at screaming point.  
  
“Marry me,” he mutters.  
  
“What did you say?” she gasps and stops rearranging her robes.  
  
Bill runs his hand though his hair and for the first time since she’s known him, looks unsure. “Merlin, I meant to do this properly. Posh meal, romantic walk, flowers -”  
  
“I do not need any of zat,” she murmurs and winds her arms around his neck. “And, yes, I would love to marry you.”  
  
  
  
  
“I don’t want to marry you,” he states.  
  
Fleur stares at him. She is not surprised they are having this conversation. For all his bravura that he is fine, she knows he is very far from fine.  
  
“Do you love me?” she asks.  
  
“No.”  
  
The word should cut her into pieces, but Bill is refusing to look at her.  
  
“You are lying,” she replies, feigning nonchalance as she plumps his pillows.  
  
He doesn’t answer, turning on his side.  
  
“Our first time, you told me off for ‘faking’,” she murmurs. “You told me nevair to pretend again. So don’t you dare behave like zis wiz me now, Bill Weasley.”  
  
“All right!” he snaps, and glares at her. “I do love you. It changes nothing. You can’t marry me, Fleur. Find yourself someone better, someone whole.”  
  
Fleur smiles, knowing it will infuriate him. “Why do you love me? Is it because I am beautiful? Or per’aps ‘eet is just sex?”  
  
“No!” he exclaims, outraged. “I love you because ... because ... because you’re  _you!_ ”  
  
Fleur leans over him and stops smiling. “Zen stop theenking zat I only love you because of the way you once looked. Or do you really theenk I am zat shallow?”  
  
Then she sits back on the chair by his bedside, picks up a Quidditch magazine and flicks through it.  
  
“I thought you hated the game,” he says after a while.   
  
She smirks to herself and drops the magazine back on the floor. “You can remember zat, but not ‘ow much I love you,” she remarks.  _“Interessant!”_  
  
Bill reaches out and takes one of her hands in his. “I don’t want you tied to me when things have changed. We’re heading for war, Fleur. This is a fight you don’t have to be a part of, and I’d rather you were safe in France.”  
  
Moving to his bedside, Fleur lies alongside him, her hand slipping between the buttons of his pyjama top so she can feel his heart beating under her palm. He kisses her brow, letting his lips rest in her hair.  
  
“Since I first saw you, I knew,” she murmurs. “And I cannot leave you now.”  
  
She tilts her head up. Their eyes meet, and she sees how much she really means to him.  
  
That look - a lightning bolt sparked her senses into life.  
  
 _Le coup de foudre._

_**********************_

_*** Translation:  
  
 _“Il arrive comme ça pour nous, cherie’._  
  
"It happens like that for us, dear."  
  
 _‘J'espère qu'il sent la même voie.’__  
  
"I hope he feels the same way."


End file.
